


Friction to Build

by Suchthingbutnever



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suchthingbutnever/pseuds/Suchthingbutnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University!AU: Zayn’s nipping on a luke-warm bottle of beer and the music is mainstream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friction to Build

The music is mainstream.

 

Zayn’s nipping on a luke-warm bottle of beer, standing close to the group he came with. He scans the room, taking in the laughing, chatting, swaying clumps of people. The girls in pairs and threes, the lads in larger groups, more open to anyone joining – and it’s weird how they fit into the stereotypes, the American ones everyone believes in even though nobody present is, in fact, American.

 

His own friends, if he should call them that, are busy discussing their paper on Proust due Monday, all flowing expensive terms that are either too French or too long for the rest of the room to be even vaguely interested.

Zayn can’t fault them for being vain in their spoken language. It’s what they do, it’s what he himself does.

It’s what people expect of anyone with a degree in literature to talk, act, sound like. They expect the long-sleeved V-neck shirts and the swept back hair, usage of ridiculous words like ‘caterwaul’ and ‘penultimate’, black coffee and tea with milk and no sugar.

 

And anything less in frowned upon.

 

The music is still mainstream.

 

The American cliché has by now taken over the room. A flock of blondes has gathered, rose-gold bangles rattling, hair flicking back, lashes coated with excessive amounts of mascara batting. In the corner, right next to them, sits a collection of the seemingly less-attractive, more self-respecting sort, that wear long skirts with ethno-print and wooden necklaces from their year off in South Africa. They’d be interesting to talk to if Zayn was interested.

 

Which he isn’t in the slightest.

 

He just lifts his brows when yet another auto-tuned techno pop song starts playing. In another corner a bunch of lads who obviously spend most of their time in science labs smoking their own bio-grown weed flinch physically at one of the high tune the utterly talentless singer gives. Then they start cracking some more beer and reading out their Star Wars T-shirts to each other.

 

He hears Niall laughing at the other end of the room, joined in by a few other throaty chuckles. Of course the Irish diaspora is on-going and not manageable in mere numbers, but they always tend to find a way back to each other. Mostly through Guinness and Kilkenny. Niall is an alright lad, Zayn supposes – he’d be interesting enough to analyse come the day they have to write a research paper on regional accents and the way they define ones identity.

 

A few newbies have joined his group now, typically enough, philosophy students, most of them minoring in art history for something practical and hands-on. Harry’s among them, wearing his existentialist outfit, showing off his broad shoulders and his Oedipus complex. All black does suit him, though.

 

Zayn finishes his bottle and motions Harry to follow him to the make-shift bar. They stand next to each other, both at complete ease, both somewhat regretting their decision to come out tonight, both also enjoying the plebeian activity around them in a very complex way. They know they’re above it all, they’ve read it all, read too much, perhaps – but there’s no way out of it.

 

Harry is a Lady’s man, so much is clear.

 

Mainly because most of the girls that muster up the courage and the vocabulary are scared off by the suddenness of his life-revealing statements, the intensity of his green eyes, the careless curl of his hair, the way he sighs and smokes another one of Zayn’s cigarettes. 

He’s broken in an inexplicable way, which obviously he knows how to phrase, but deliberately doesn’t, because destruction of affinity is at the same time animation of the soul. Or some such rubbish. These things make girls mad about him, make them want to save him, heal him, tear open his shirt and press his long philosophical fingers against their pert breasts. 

 

Zayn’s mostly amused when he watches the way Harry pretends to be deep.

 

Maybe in his pretence, he somehow is.

 

The fucking music is fucking mainstream.

 

Not that Zayn’s complaining, because Louis’ the one holding the party, and Louis is friends with everyone and anyone, directly, indirectly, without conscious decisions made, without mutual consent – you find yourself labelled as ‘a friend of Louis ©’. Zayn can write passages about it, he’s experienced it himself first hand.

What he can’t tolerate, somehow, is how inconsiderate Louis had been while throwing together the soundtrack. When he’d invited a troop of future neurologists along with Ed, he should’ve gone and got a copy of the latest Rise Against album – because people who have to stay calm and hold a steady hand tend to go a little wild when not holding a scalpel. It’s the American stereotype rule, obviously. If he’d invited Harry and his philosophy pals, he should’ve downloaded weird unheard of copies of Händel and Prokofiev.

 

Zayn could be doing with a lot more Indie, a little less auto-tune.

 

But maybe there is a group who’s thoroughly enjoyed every single part of this end-of-semester drink-fest. They’re sports students, as far as Zayn can tell, maybe minoring in math or chemistry or some sort of subject that make them feel manly and sweaty and muscled.

They’re setting up a game of beer pong, something Zayn’s really rather good at, if you take the Shakespeare version he played back in college with his literature course mates. He’s smart enough not to mention a word of it.

 

The game is started and the blondes, some natural, some dyed, scoot closer to examine the candidates of the night. It takes Zayn a minute to realize they’re not all blonde – a girl with long auburn hair is wearing a calculated look while pressing her bottom against the crotch of a football major, eyes darting out to find Louis, teasing, sparking jealousy easily enough.

 

Zayn just snorts at that.

 

Then there’s another girl with caramel cream skin and a good layer of make-up half-climbing a guy who, body and shape-wise, fits in seamlessly. Zayn is prepared to give another snort before he realizes that the lad looks genuinely uncomfortable. He’s a little bit startled at that, his American-theory proved wrong in this case.

He turns to his friends – and he really considers stop calling them that – who are now involved in a heated discussion over Henry James’ influence over trans-Atlantic literature.

 

He sort of wants to ask the whether they are capable of speaking about anything less than Jane Austen, then leaves the work to Harry, who’s courting Caroline, who’s done three research papers about James the last semester, to do whatever it is that needs to be done to shut them up.

 

Zayn muses over strong expletives and their lack of use in world prose.

 

Then he goes over to the beer pong lot and fixes his eyes on the guy who proved him wrong. He’s wearing a simple white T-shirt, dark jeans, nothing special, nothing too jocky or high-necked, his hair isn’t gelled back or pulled into a particular angle. Despite looking like he works out twenty-four-seven, he’s wearing the sort of out-fit that one throws together on any given day with a lack of sleep and caffeine. And he’s not joining the rowdy crowd either, having fended off Miss Coffee-and-Cream, just standing there, watching.

 

Inside of Zayn’s head a possible explanation starts writing itself. The lad might be with the football, but maybe he’s an art major, maybe he secretly enjoys Mozart or unknown contemporary writers, maybe he’s just hanging with the wrong crowd, having the wrong friends.

 

Zayn certainly knows what that feels like.

 

But then one of the half-drunk beer pong guys turns around and hugs him stead and fest, and he smiles and hugs back. It’s a genuine, nice smile, the ones you save for your mates back home or an old diner you haven’t visited for ages.

Zany frowns and walks back to Harry, tugs at his shirts and they venture to get another beer, while Harry tugs away Caroline’s number with a self-deprecating smile that makes his face dark and mystified, but also beatifically handsome.

 

A few of the blondes and non-blondes faint to the sound to Lady Gaga.

 

Zayn ask randomly, nods towards the lad in the white T-shirt and the smile. Harry just shrugs. Tells him he’d have to ask himself, otherwise a real connection would never be able to build itself, strengthen, and Zayn would never get laid.

 

Zayn doesn’t care to explain about his American stereotype theory and decides to just go ahead and ask. There are more than a few drunken bodies flaunting about now, the girls shrieking like little kids overexcited with sugar and cotton candy. The lad’s stepped back, made room for the tantrum to unfold. He’s also holding a glass of coke in his hands, eyes concerned, lips pressed together.

 

Zayn clasps a hand over his shoulder and ignores the headache the awful music combined with high-pitched screeching is causing him. The guy looks back at him over his shoulders, and if Zayn rated human beings according to their sexual attraction, he’d be holding up a card of at least 9, because the eyes are trusting and a lovely shade of light brown, because his mouth is still curled up at the distasteful drunken actions of his friends, because…

 

His name is Liam, Zayn realizes, and replies all calm and eloquent.

 

He’s good at that sort of thing. Intimidating people with his northern accent, rounded and bent at the needed places to fit the big, complicated words he uses. It sounds all wrong, to be honest, but people are so intrigued it’s somehow won its own charm over time.

 

They end up sitting on the stairs outside Louis’ apartment, legs crossed and bottles of beer in hand.

 

It’s a companionable sort of silence Zayn would usual leave be, if he wasn’t on his personal quest to decipher the odd case in his theory. So he starts talking about Uni, about the stress and the late night cheap instant coffee sold at the vending machine, about girls who unhook their bra’s themselves.

It’s all sorts of testy, but Liam just answers like a normal person. He’s doing alright, mechanical engineering and all that, football team putting on a bit of pressure, he doesn’t really like caffeine or girls.

 

The last statement catches Zayn off guard.

 

Liam is blatantly honest, or at least very good at appearing so, his T-shirt is deliciously wrinkled and he just openly admitted to being gay. Something Zayn has only done with one of his sisters, Harry and recently Niall.

 

Justin Bieber starts singing and Zayn just fucks the world off and crushes his lips to Liam’s in one thrift movement. He can hear a girl behind them, probably the caramel one, giving a scandalized shout, but he couldn’t care less right now.

The thing is, that Zayn really isn’t a person to be easily impressed, and even if he is, he rarely lets on. He’s quiet and brooding but he hates being wrong, really, passionately hates it.

He’s categorized his own brain and all his surroundings for the sake of sneering at them, but the one bloke he’s known for approximately twenty minutes fits in nowhere.

 

And to completely avoid giving himself space to think about his own failure or attitude or life-style, Zayn tugs Liam up and hoists him towards the direction of his own dorm. The lad responds fairly quick, and yes, he’s on the football team, so it’s not entirely surprising that he’s capable of hoisting Zayn up and carrying him most of the way.

 

They fumble for keys and condoms and lube and then Zayn’s on his couch, holding up a 10 mentally, his shirt hanging off his shoulders loosely. He knows how he looks, and he relishes the few seconds in which Liam just stands there and drinks him in with darkening eyes. He mumbles something about not even knowing Zayn properly and then lunges, like a tiger, like a lion, scratch that –like something very powerful and precise. His hands are all over, stroking, pushing, tweaking, and Zayn smiles indulgently.

 

Because not knowing is exactly the point.

 

He’s only just realized his larges mistake, with Liam spreading his legs apart and sliding one or two slick fingers in and out of him. He presumes that knowing everyone and putting them into little drawn circles was the way of doing it. But no, it’s the entire thing without knowing. Sans logic.

 

It’s what makes you sane, in Harry’s words.

 

Liam’s hard and leaking and twitching and impatient, but he waits and pulls a hand through Zayn’s hair, eyes questioning, still that lovely shade of light brown. So Zayn lifts his hips and allows him to push in far too roughly, and parts his legs like a whore accepting her lover. Liam’s not wearing a condom, he realizes, and the thrill of the sheer stupidity and risk makes him buck up and groan.

 

He eyes the long pack of STD preventing little squares weep on the floor a few meters away and grins. So now he knows that Liam like it risky too – maybe he doesn’t get drunk, maybe he doesn’t smoke weed or play Starcraft, but he when fucks, he presents the core to his soul.

 

Most people do.

 

When they lie there in their afterglow, Liam still inside of him, building enough friction to start a second round, hand reaching towards Zayn’s little bed-side radio, he stops him.

 

For the sake of sanity, which is most probably already lost, anyways.

 

But who’s he to judge.


End file.
